


Quiet Moon, Stormy Waters

by The Primera Haruoka (TenshiEren14)



Series: Calm Moon, Blazing Fire [1]
Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Divergent, Emotions, Family Feels, Gen, Moonshadow Elf culture, Pre-Canon, Runaan tries hard to not emotion, The effects of war on a kid, Tinker's half-sun elf half moon elf, Tinker's name is Samir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenshiEren14/pseuds/The%20Primera%20Haruoka
Summary: For Moonshadow elves, emotionality is a luxury.For Runaan, he must first and foremostly be an example.(5 times Runaan let his emotions make his decisions and the one time he couldn't)





	Quiet Moon, Stormy Waters

**Author's Note:**

> The Dragon Prince is absolutely wild but Runaan's cool so I guess it's fine. 
> 
> I really didn't intend for this to get quite so out of hand, but I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you have just as much fun reading it.

**I ) The Battlefield (15) **

It was messier than he thought it would be. 

Runaan had been training for this day since before he could walk; had known the weight of a sword before he knew the texture of his mother’s milk but even he could’ve never anticipated the sheer barbarity of war. They called him a prodigy; Runaan of the Quickstep, they said as they anointed him after his petty missions and successful marks in his preteen years. He clenched the guard of his blade tightly, fighting the urge to heave as the stench of sweat layered in old blood rolled over him, his quickstep wouldn’t protect him from the chaotic screaming of metal on metal as it tattooed itself into his ear.

“_Runaan_ _focus!_” The words were sharp but they didn’t quite shake him out of his stupor. His Commander’s heavy gauntlets rested on his shoulders (were his shoulders always so small? Commander Rhapsodos’ hands seemed to swallow even his neck) and he idly met his eyes, not quite registering the glowing silver of the Commander’s irises. “Can you handle it? Can you clear us a path or do I have to put you up with the sentinels on the cliffsides?”

He didn’t have much time to think about it. He gave one more glance to the hell unfolding before him, to the blood and viciousness in the moonlight and he felt the cold grasp of fear curdle his stomach. He was terrified. His fingers were squeezing his swords with so much force that he was certain the dull wood would cut into his palm. Commander Rhapsodos had faith in him, had brought him up with the intention of using him as an ace in the hole against the humans and their atrocious black magicks. 

Runaan took a step into the moonlight, breathing in the acrid smell of dirt and stale air and--he pivoted on his heel, plunging the blade of his sword into the human who had taken a step towards them. 

He was afraid yes, absolutely beside himself with a deep ignorance and a primal fear that threatened to make him drop his sword, but the weight of Commander Rhapsodos expectation--of his peers stares as they waited for him to crumble under the pressure and be regaled to the backlines like some  _ child _ \-- that made him feel something even stronger than the fear blocking his senses. 

He felt  _ spite _ ; a deep, jagged need to prove himself to those placating sneers and pitying looks. He flicked his wrist, resolutely ignoring the wet sound of flecks of blood against the dew-stained grass, “Please stay close to me, Commander.”

He didn’t have to look back to feel the weight of his Commander’s approval; he simply adjusted his grip on his dual swords and whispered his final words to the Moon, blurring out of eyesight as he let the thrill of absolute speed guide him across the blood-slick battleground. 

* * *

** II) Samir (16)**

It wasn’t quite a full-moon night but Runaan could already feel the pull of the Moon’s magic against his skin, filling his bones with restlessness and igniting his veins with idle energy. 

He had been put on strict bedrest, an order by the head nurse after he had come back from a recon mission with three broken ribs and a Grade 3 concussion. In truth, it had only been a handful of hours since he had been laid to rest on the makeshift futon but already Runaan was filled with a great boredom. ‘Breaks’ and ‘rests’ weren’t words he had been familiar with since he had become an active soldier. His stamina was something he was constantly cheating, making up for his lack of endurance compared to the almost monstrous Sunfire elves or the unnaturally sturdy Earthborn elves with superior evasion and illusory arts. Strictly speaking, Runaan wasn’t exactly a mage--certainly he had some skill but he wasn’t exceptional or talented at the art-- but the spells had saved his and his comrades lives many a time and as surely as he had breath in his body, he could dedicate his time to honing his skills so he could ensure that he would live another day. 

Said train of thought is what led him to sneak about the temporary infirmary he was currently holed up in, his footsteps imperceptible as he searched for stray books on magic. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that there would be anything of substance in an easily raidable location like a temp-house hidden just a few clicks away from the active battlefield, but even the basics of Moon based healing magic would be useful. Any knowledge was good knowledge in these dangerous times and Runaan had already seen the great practicality of having even cursory knowledge in these arts. 

Of course, no amount of stubbornness or unrest on his part could ease the wobbling of his gait or the watery quality of the air around him as he looked for a good book. There was an infernal humming still pattering away in his left ear as well, but these were ignorable concerns. This was a multi-primal hospice and he had seen that Skywing elf who was missing half of his pair of wings get rushed into the slapdash operating room himself. There were others here who could use the medicine far more than he and his meagre ‘concussion’. 

He tripped over his feet as he made his way into the reception area (and it wasn’t much of a reception area actually, just an adjoining space with boxes of emergency supplies stacked in a shape vaguely resembling a counter), a heady vertigo threatening to burst his head apart at its seams as he steadied himself on his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut, too busy trying to battle his nausea to really pay attention to the approaching footsteps but automatically preparing to defend himself if necessary. 

Curious feet came to rest in front of his eyes. Obscured by heavy boots which flowed into a long apron stained with all manner of ichor and bodily fluid, Runaan had the malodor assault him before his already addled mind could catalogue anything else. And then he was losing against his stomach, his body lurching forward with the force of his retching. 

It was a putrid thing, really. A mess made of stomach acid more than tangible food but tainted with the wonderous aroma of pickled blood no doubt swallowed while the cursed fluid was bubbling up through his teeth thanks to his ribs. It had also gotten into his hair. He would cut it when he got the chance. 

"You really shouldn't be moving around, Lieutenant."

The voice was gentle, a trickle of river water against the smooth face of boulders but Runaan was already moving, hands fumbling for grasp around a knee or hip to unbalance this unknown factor who knew of his rank. Unfortunately for him, the only thing he managed to do was slip in the disgusting mess of his vomit and fall back-first onto the hard floor, the last of his pain medication wearing off as he jostled his ribs with the impact.

He groaned softly, blinking away the haze of dark spots and blinding pain to see laughing eyes of gold looking down at him. His hair was dark--Sunfire dark-- but his skin was pure Moon elf and the curve of his horns agreed with that assessment. An arc of pain had Runaan wincing, another half delirious sound leaving his lips as his vision started failing him. 

The odd Sun-Moon elf (Moonfire? Sunshadow?) chuckled quietly and he slid his arms underneath Runaan's back, angling him upwards in preparation to carry him back to his room, "Well, it's always good to see our patients so filled with energy."

He carefully picked Runaan up, gingerly adjusting his indelicate tangle of limbs so the Moonshadow elf had some measure of comfort, "How-ever did you make it all the way out here in your condition though? Did you not break a good three of your ribs and bruise a quarter dozen more?"

Speech pattern marked him as a Moon elf but those rune marks were almost definitely Sun aligned. 

"Can you hear me down there, Lieutenant? I'm going to need a verbal answer from you. I need to make sure you didn't rattle that handsome head of yours when you tumbled back there."

...the attitude was Sun aligned too. 

Runaan sniffed but immediately regretted it, the dismissive motion irritating his aching chest, "'m fine."

The Moonfire-shadowSun elf gave a hearty laugh, restraining his mirth but somehow still conveying the impression of an absolutely riotous chortling, "You're most certainly not 'fine', Lieutenant. You gummed up my boots and are laying docilely in my arms while I princess-carry you back to your room. If I didn't know you were Mr Quickstep himself, I'd not believe my eyes."

Runaan supposed he had a point there. "How d'you know ‘f me?"

A quieter snicker, they were probably close to the room by now if the Sun-shad-ire elf was restricting himself to minor laughs like this, "There's no one this side of Xadia who doesn't know you. I believe the word is 'infamous'." Here those laughing eyes seemed to dim in the darkness of night, a dark thought surfacing unbidden, "I never expected you to be such a scrawny thing, though."

Runaan scoffed at that, petulantly frowning at the jab at his size, "You d'n't look any more big tha' me."

The clean smell of disinfectant and air freshner entered the equation and Runaan was really beginning to feel the effects of walking about injured as he was. Surprisingly, the strange mismatched elf put him down on one of the taped up boxes in the corner of the room, winking at him in the lieu of giving him an order to stay put as he disappeared behind a curtain to retrieve water and hopefully pain medication. 

From his voice Runaan had thought that the elf was just about his age (and though, yes he was quite young to be on the battlefield, he was hardly unique) but from the broad lines of his back, he could tell that his mysterious attendant was older. He leaned forward absently, putting a hand to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stall the pressure building in the forefront of his skull but succeeded only in aggravating his chest. 

"Sit up straight, Lieutenant." He hadn't returned from beyond the curtain but his voice travelled smoothly nevertheless. Runaan glared at where he assumed the boy's back would be (and yes, vaguely he was aware that he was being childish but he really couldn't think of much past basic information recognition at this point. He had hit his head  _ really _ hard on the business end of that stupid human's club). "Don't look at me in that tone of voice!" A jovial chuckle and the odd elf was coming back with a bowl cradled to his chest and a packet in his unoccupied hand, "I can leave you here to suffer disorientation until morning. Just imagine how quickly the news will spread: 'Intimidating Prodigy Lieutenant Runaan of the Thistlethorn Clan Pouting at the Sun!'"

Runaan frowned harder, trying to muster a scowl but falling into a wince when the expression put too much pressure on his facial muscles. The elf clicked his tongue delicately, setting the bowl and packet down on the floor besides the box and kneeling before him. He wrung out the rag that was soaking in the water (and it wasn't regular water, it was a brew of some sort--Runaan could smell the herbs, could feel the prickle of magic against his skin) and gave Runaan's face a once-over, "Is it alright to touch you, Lieutenant?"

It was a genuine surprise, how humbly the request had been phrased. The smile was still tugging at the odd elf's lips but it was far more sombre now, a professional mask of a nurse attending to a patient. He didn't like it. Somewhere in the back of his addled, shaken up thoughts, a part of him had  _ liked _ being treated so casually. No one had touched him off-handedly since the war restarted, no one dared to joke in his presence while he was out on the field. Moon elves were moody creatures, often susceptible to long periods of brooding with the turns of the moon and Moonshadow elves were creatures of stoicism who took that capriciousness and ironed it into something that could be stabbed into the soft gut of a target. 

He looked into those hardened honey gold eyes and felt his stomach roil from another bout of nausea (one that he would definitely swallow down, thank you). He averted his eyes with an over-dramatic roll, "I believe, you've already gone far past the point of asking permission."

Soft hands were on his chin, their warmth providing an adequate distraction from the litany of aches and pains currently aggressively vying for attention in Runaan's nerves, "Well, I guess those rumours about you cutting out your funny bone aren't entirely true."

* * *

  
**III) Aftermath (18)**

It had been easier that Runaan thought it would be. 

There had been a tip during the second to last ‘formal’ battle; a mole who had been feeding information to a particular human general in exchange for artefacts of dark magic and promises of contact with ones long past the veil of life. When Runaan had gotten the order, he thought nothing of it--in fact he had been  _ giddy _ , so incredibly ready to be rid of the malady on their people and finally end the ceaseless, cyclical fighting. 

He alone was in charge of smoking out the mole. He alone had gotten the message from the Queen of the Moon elves. 

Runaan was sure she knew when she sent him the notice. 

The mole had been Commander Rhapsodos.  _ His father _ . 

‘Send a blood ribbon’ the note said. ‘Burn the body after extermination’ that damned note had said. 

Well Runaan had been a good soldier. He had done everything to the letter; cornering the Commander, cutting off his possible escapes, extracting his confession…

In the end, the Commander had expected him; had welcomed his challenge with his customary severe expression and a sharpened smile. Runaan found that after the second hour of their battle, he had turned off his brain, instead treating the confrontation like one of the many, many grueling matches he had had on the battlefield. In the end, he hadn’t won from superior skill or endurance, but because the Commander had wanted to  _ talk _ \--had started speaking of pride and regret right in the middle of a fight as though Runaan was an audience unfamiliar with his story and with the grief that came with burying his mother at the tender age of seven. He had done what any soldier with half a brain would do and stabbed the Commander in his throat in the middle of his tale, his eyes never breaking contact with the perfectly sane and cognizant teal of his father’s. 

Like he said. Easy. 

His binding turned red after the light left the Commander’s eyes and Runaan stepped outside to send the blood ribbon, notching his arrow and muttering in Draconian before putting his bow to the side and grabbing the nearest shovel-like object to begin burying the body. 

His order came back to him then; ‘ _ burn it’ _ like a curse embedded into the cells of his skull and so Runaan went back into the tent and took the body and created a bed of leaves and twigs. And he stood under the moonlight with flint in hand and set fire to his Commander’s body. And he watched as the flames ate at his armour and his leathers and those gauntlets whose weight had been imprinted into the slouch of Runaan’s shoulders and he did not move until the crack of the skull popping had echoed into the night. 

Before the flames died out fully, he gathered his hair into the ashy palm of his hand and cut it all, leaving his once knee length hair to rest right below his ears. Tradition dictated that he not pray for a traitor but tradition also dictated that one must never raise their hand in animosity against one’s parents. Runaan didn’t laugh as he threw his ponytail into the fire, but he did entertain the thought. He prayed for his father, for his mother, for his sister. He prayed for his people. He prayed for Samir. 

He gathered the ashes at sunrise and made for the nearest river. 

* * *

Runaan didn’t make it back to Thistlethorn until evening. 

He knew he was in a haze, was perfectly aware that he had all but stumbled into the gates with a haunted look etched into his face and hair shorter than anyone had ever seen on him but the part of him usually charged with appearances had burned in the fire that morning. 

Unfortunately, he would never be out of it enough to miss the lights on in his house. There was nobody left; no one who would have the keys or know where they squirreled away their spare or would know just the right way to weasel into the windows from the second floor. Therefore, there was an intruder, or a squatter. Same difference. 

He had his daggers pulled before he stepped into the house, his body slipping into the comfortable battle-ready stance as he surveyed the corridor for anything out of the ordinary. 

“Ah, you’re back! Come on in then, you’re lucky I decided to reheat lunch.” 

Samir. Samir was  _ there _ with his wide smile and kind eyes and mismatch of features, poking his head out from behind the kitchen door like he had always lived here and didn’t, in fact, live on the Wilds closer to Cylla Mountain with his direhound and his Aunt Tierza. Samir was here, without a shirt and in his travel leggings sans shoes like he had nowhere better to be and all at once that dizzying numbness coalesced into a deep, horrible  _ anger _ and he was crossing the threshold with his daggers still in hand and a snarl warping his features, “Why are you  _ here _ ?!” 

The halfling didn’t flinch, meeting Runaan’s gaze evenly, “Making sure you don’t kill yourself.” 

The dagger collided with the wall with a sharp-sounding thunk, the force behind the motion embedding it up to its hilt in wood and mortar, “Get out.” 

Samir rolled his eyes disappearing past the doorjamb and towards the pot, picking up the spoon and stirring, “I’m not leaving you alone, Runaan. I know what you’ve done--”

“ _ I had no choice!” _

The other dagger found its home a few millimeters to the right of Samir’s head, the steel going through the wall and clattering accusingly onto the floor of the next room over. “What you’ve had to do,” Samir amended breezily, “And everyone might think that you’re some sort of super soldier but I know what you really are.” 

The daggers were gone and so Runaan contented himself with squeezing his hands at his side, “And what’s that?” 

The elf faced Runaan then, the gentlest of smiles softening his countenance until it seemed as though he was more fireflower than man, “A child.” 

He saw red. 

He had Samir pinned before he knew himself, had the hot spoon poised over his head and was absolutely ready to listen to the blood in his ears telling him to bludgeon those petal-like features until all that remained was the familiar scent of blood and rot. He could still smell the ash on his hands, could only see fire in his mind as Samir’s golden eyes looked up at him with understanding and acceptance and not a hint of fear. 

Just like him. 

_ Just like Father. _

“What?” He taunted, that delicate smile taking on a mischievous twist, “Will you kill me like you murdered him?” 

‘Exterminate the mole’, ‘Burn the body’, ‘Send the proof’--

Runaan closed his eyes and saw his Commander; impassioned with love but perfectly sound of mind. He saw the eyes of his Queen whose steely grey eyes were not dissimilar to the polished edge of a sword. He saw-- 

“You can't see it, can you? What they’ve made of you?” 

Runaan squeezed his eyes tighter, dropping the spoon with a tinny clang and forcing himself not to think of the burning in his throat, the well of anger becoming sickness and nausea and Gods what did he  _ do? What did he just do?! _

“I-”

Samir’s hands were on his back, forcing him down flush to his torso and Runaan went down like the marionette he was. There was shame first, an overwhelming shame that burned like his blood was alight and kindled with oil. His first tears weren’t of regret, or of sadness or of loneliness but of  _ shame _ because he had been so expertly molded that even when he had stifled the last of his family with his own hands, his primary concern was that he had failed his country and his people. 

Samir stretched up for a moment and turned the stove off, mumbling something Runaan couldn’t quite make out over the sound of the roaring in his ears. 

Gods,  _ what had he done? _

* * *

**IV) Rayla (20)**

Moonshadow assassins didn't do children. 

They accepted entries into their ranks from children over the age of ten, certainly, but it was an unspoken law that active Moonshadow agents steer clear of intimate familial bonds such as children to prevent bringing dishonour onto uninvolved parties should their parents have to do something unsavoury. It wasn't a hard law obviously, people married and had children regardless of the invisible bureaucracy surrounding said decisions but as the leader of the Moonshadow assassins, Runaan had no such luxury.

He was already pushing boundaries by living with Samir (though it was a largely unofficial and seasonal thing. Samir still lived in the Wilds and visited Thistlethorn during the winters and falls) and he himself had been a strange exception to the law. There was a reason the Commander never treated him like a son and it wasn't because the man was lacking in love. To be a Moonshadow assassin--especially during these treacherous war times-- meant to put your orders and your people first. You were not an individual, you weren't allowed to have feelings. You only existed to be rid of the target and as such, your universe should be as barren as possible to facilitate the lifestyle of near constant nomadism and ever changing factors that comprised such an occupation.

Samir understood perfectly well why Runaan had taken up his father's mantle. He stood by Runaan's side with a homely smile and fire dancing at his fingertips and had taken up arms as a smithy to better support Runaan and his lifestyle. Samir was two years Runaan's elder and was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and making his own decisions. 

None of those things applied to or explained the thatched basket sitting innocuously on Runaan's doorstep at 2 am on a crescent night stuffed with dark blue and green blankets and what was, undoubtedly, an infant. 

He stared at the thing for a heartbeat then quietly closed the door. 

There weren't many couples in Thistlethorn who had been expecting--in truth, there weren't very many couples in Thistlethorn at all--which meant that elves from a foreign village had dropped their child onto the doorstep of the biggest house in the community under undue assumptions that Runaan was some sort of mayor. Unfortunately for both them and the child, Runaan was more than pleased with his current life and his hair had only just begun to brush the skin of his shoulder bones once more. He didn't have the best track record with small, breakable things and was certain Samir had only lasted as long as he did in his presence because the halfling spent half the year away from him.

He wouldn't leave the child out in the night however, he wasn't a beast. The orphanage was only a short walk away and the night was young enough that Runaan was positive he would catch it open. He retrieved his coat and his knives and returned to the door. 

Admittedly, Runaan didn't have an expansive knowledge on the art of handling younglings. He had heard in passing that the eyes of a youngling possessed some of the most powerful magic known to Xadia and had already decided that he wouldn't so much as jostle the blankets to prevent himself from being hexed. Then the thing made a  _ noise _ . It wasn't crying or laughter rather, the moment Runaan picked the basket up, the bundle of blankets squawked then gurgled. Presence of mind alone kept Runaan from instantly dropping the basket like he had been burnt but he had  _ never _ heard another elf make such an embarrassing noise. 

Yes, truly the orphanage was the brightest idea. Runaan was certain he would accidentally kill the thing the next time it made such alien noises.

It was a short walk to the modest building. Thistlethorn didn’t have very many children; it was a hidden village after all and apart from the occasional wandering merchants they didn’t get a whole lot of tourists. It was a close-knit community like most Moon elf districts and the majority of the people living there were just about his age. Assassin communities like this one rarely survived battle, but Thistlethorn had persevered. 

Runaan’s grip tightened on the basket as the thoughts whirred through his mind. This was beginning to become an unsettlingly perplexing occurrence.

* * *

The orphanage was always a calming place to visit. The matron of the place, a retired assassin turned carpenter Maader, was a woman who commanded respect with a glance of her starbright teal eyes. She had assistants--a teenaged boy called Grisha who failed the test of age and decided to become a story weaver and a young woman just a few years Runaan’s elder named Ethel who was more musician than fighter-- but the odd hour of morning would mean that both of them would be long asleep. For what is was worth, Runaan hoped they would be asleep. Ethel had made it clear on numerous occasions that she was interested in him and despite his open disinterest, she seemed set on courting him. 

There was also the small matter of the children who called the place their home but Runaan was better with children that most people expected. He only required that they understand basic language to amuse them for long enough periods of time. 

The basket in his grip shifted, the blankets crinkling before the child inside made another strange set of noises. 

Runaan knocked on the door a bit louder than strictly necessary. 

He wasn’t expecting the wide eyes of nine year old Farah to blink up at him when the door opened and he most certainly wasn’t keen on stepping inside when the unmistakable form of Ethel filled his eyes. 

Whoever left this child on his doorstep had the devil’s timing. Samir would be visiting in a few days time and Runaan knew for certain that the halfling would be ecstatic to be around Ethel and her ‘little sister’ again. 

As things stood, he presented the basket to Ethel carefully not meeting Farah’s eyes, “I do believe this would be better off in your hands.” 

The woman blinked at him, her surprise palpable as she looked from Runaan’s stoic face to the weighted basket. The blankets shifted. The child began to cry. 

Runaan may or may not have dropped the thing from shock. The basket may or may not have then hit Farah on the crown of her head, colliding with her horns and puncturing the very edges of the thatched up thing. There may or may not have been a lot of yelling on Ethel’s end. 

Runaan prepared himself for a long night.

* * *

“She was just… outside?” 

He sat on one of the high stools meant for the children, placing his weight on his elbows as he perched his chin on the back of his wrist. Ethel had swiftly taken possession of the child, berating him for his carelessness and sweeping him up into their nursery. The swiftness of her response had been a bit amazing if Runaan were being honest. She had quieted the child and had managed to change and swaddle her all within the half hour. 

Yes, the orphanage would be good for the baby.

“Yes. At this point, I’m unsure of the exact means used to infiltrate Thistlethorn.” 

Ethel hummed, rocking the babe close to her breast, “What makes you so sure it was an outsider?” 

For some reason, Runaan couldn’t keep his eyes from trailing back to the child. It was...so small against Ethel’s chest, so pale in the artificial light hanging overhead, “There aren’t many couples in Thistlethorn, Ethel. Of the five known pairs, none of them were expecting. The next caravan isn’t scheduled to arrive until Friday which leaves only one possibility.” 

A frown tugged at her delicate features, “An odd crime, don’t you think?” 

The child cooed in Ethel’s arms, stretching out miniscule fingers in a motion that could almost be misconstrued for want of an embrace, “Technically, it’s not illegal.” 

The tenderness in Ethel’s movement as she placed her finger in the infant’s grip was horribly juxtaposed by the disgust twisting at her countenance, “It’s not illegal to abandon a child?”

He looked disapprovingly at her, quietly impressing on her to control her emotions, “If we were another sort of elf then it would be. However we’re Moon elves.”

She chuckled at that, something bitter and thick and not at all suited to her elegant form, “Of course. All us Moon elves are the same after all.” The baby kept pulling at Ethel’s finger, eventually guiding it into its gummy, drool-ridden mouth not that she noticed in her annoyance, “I’ve had it up to here with those stiffs in the Pentarchy treating us like--”

“Ethel.” 

She paused, gritting her teeth. “Sorry, My Lord.” 

He would roll his eyes if it wasn’t unbecoming, “Can you and Maader be trusted to look after the child then?” 

She sighed, looking in-between the child and Runaan’s calm visage, “Runaan, you know we haven’t had to deal with a newborn in years. Even if we had supplies, they’d all be long expired.” 

He didn’t like where this was going. There was apprehension stirring in his gut, the unease he felt only when he knew he was unprepared for a report from a comrade, “Can you do it?”

She met his eyes, the crystalline blue of her irises sparkling regretfully under the lowlight, “We’ll need time to gather the required products, Runaan. Infants require much care and attention, not to mention warmth. The closest place that would stock the herbs and milk is Bramberry--”

Runaan was on his feet before she could finish, “Then I’ll go.” 

Ethel coughed out a laugh, seemingly not at all taken aback by Runaan’s sudden insistence, “No offense dear Lord but you wouldn’t know what to look for even if I gave you a list.” She appraised him then, a squealing giggle filling the room, “Lord Runaan, are you perhaps...afraid of the child?” 

He flinched. “I fear nothing.” 

Ethel’s smile somehow grew even wider, her excitement filling the room and smothering Runaan with its potency, “You’re afraid of a child!” 

Runaan could feel his face heating up, “I’m a weapon, not a babysitter. I’ll fetch the supplies and you and Lady Maader can handle it in the meantime.” 

She had sidled up to him while he spoke, a gleeful glow to her eyes all the while, “And I’m telling you that a few days looking after the child won’t kill you. Nor will it kill her. Children are made of sterner stuff than you’d think.”

She held the child out for him to hold and Runaan felt himself freeze as those terribly wide and watery amethyst eyes blinked up at him. The thing was  _ tiny _ , “Just give me the list Ethel, I’ll be back in two days time.” 

Ethel rolled her eyes, “Just hold out your hands, Runaan.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea--”

“Your hands, Runaan.” 

It was instinctual response to listen to an elder and then Ethel was palming off the squishy, puny, breakable thing in his unsteady hands and the only thing Runaan was aware of was the infant’s waifish smile and too pudgy cheeks and her blasted glittering eyes. 

She was too  _ small _ . Runaan could feel her soft bones, so spongy and indistinguishable from her elastic skin and malleable muscle. If he squeezed just so he was sure he would pop her, would have bits and pieces of flesh and blood stuck in-between his fingers-- 

Then she laughed. And Runaan could only focus on how mesmerizing of a sound that innocent voice made. 

“Lord Runaan, this is Rayla.” 

* * *

**V) Family Conflict (28)**

**** ****  
  


“Runaan’s back!” 

It was with a practiced ease that he opened his arms to catch the falling girl, his breathing barely changing with her extra weight wriggling against his chest. Her knee pressed into the crudely dressed chest wound he had gotten during this mission. He held his breath to swallow his flinch. She was caked in mud and leaves, an impish smile splitting her face as she sullied his once pristine uniform. He bent his head, taking a moment to press his nose to her messy hair--the closest facsimile of an embrace he would give in the open air, “What have I said about leaping from the attic, Rayla?” 

The little wretch didn’t even bother to feign guilt, “You leap from heights tons higher than the roof.” 

“That’s not the point,” he gently admonished, “You haven’t learned how to fall yet. You could--”

“‘Hurt myself or others and then I’d be punished for my carelessness’ I know, I know.” 

He wrinkled his nose, the sweaty stink of the mud finally irritating his nose enough for him to bend and place her delicate feet back onto the ground, “If you know then you shouldn’t be doing it.” 

She pouted dramatically and Runaan was struck for a moment by how alike to Samir’s disapproving expression her put upon face had become, “I wouldn’t risk getting hurt if you’d just teach me how to fall, you know.” 

He ignored her, moving past her mud streaked form and heading to the house. He could feel his head preemptively aching as he surveyed the collection of crudely carved wooden knives and throwing daggers dripping a mess of blue and green paint onto his previously pristine marbled veranda. There were paint stained footsteps trailing  _ inside _ and from his position he could most definitely make out a muddy handprint on his white walls. 

“Rayla?” he murmured, mentally counting backwards from twenty to keep himself from losing his temper, “What is this?” 

She jogged towards him, her question dying on her lips as she suddenly remembered the mess, “Ah--Oh.  _ Oh.  _ I-I can explain Runaan, “ she stammered, “Y’see what had happened was Samir offered to teach me how to carve and I was excited to learn y’know so I--”

He didn’t bother glaring at her. Or looking at her for that matter. He was tired and more than that he was certain he was still losing blood. He brushed past her briskly.

“Runaan?” her nervous voice wobbled and he stifled his sigh. 

“Clean it up.” It seemed like Samir was out for the moment. He could get his wound dressed and hopefully get some rest. 

* * *

  
He didn’t awaken until it was late into the night. 

There was a pleasant burn where his wound was and Runaan immediately knew that Samir had tended to him while he was out. Blessedly, he didn’t have much of a headache and when he sat up on the edge of the bed, the mild vertigo was definitely a step up from the intense pain he was expecting to feel in his side. 

The mission had been a rousing success all things considered but one of the elves had gotten careless. Runaan didn’t often take hits for his subordinates but something in the twist of the young man’s face had spurred him into action. A knife in his ribs had been a small price to pay for the successful mission but the awestruck silence that had followed him on their trip back to Thistlethorn’s gates had rankled Runaan’s sensibilities something fierce. 

Now, as he sat in the darkness of his room, he could think a bit harder on the missteps of the weekend’s mission and find ways to amend the mistakes during the upcoming training sessions. 

“You’re awake? I was certain you’d be out until morning.” Samir’s voice wasn’t louder than a whisper as he slipped into the room, his face illuminated by the softly glowing candlelight. He left the door open behind him and Runaan could see the sliver of bright white hair marking Rayla’s poor attempt at eavesdropping. 

“Is the house cleaned up?” He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face when Rayla startled and collided with the doorknob. Samir gave a light chuckle, ambling across the room to sit by Runaan’s side on the bed. He placed the candle down on the bedside table, briskly reaching for the buttons on his over-shirt to check on his wound. 

Samir kept his head bowed, his gentle smile never wavering even as the delicate runes on his fingertips quivered with effort, “I got her to handle the mess in the veranda but the walls may need repainting.” The fabric fell away, pooling in the spaces in between Runaan’s pale, pale arms and the expanse of his abdomen, “She’s been practicing more with the dummy weapons. She’s actually managed to disarm me once while you were gone.” 

His fingers were cold against Runaan’s tepid skin as he tenderly pulled away the sullied bandages, “I’m not changing my mind, Samir.” Runaan’s voice was mild but there was an unmistakable steel behind it, “She has a choice. I’m not letting her squander it chasing dreams.” 

There was more pressure than strictly necessary on his wound, Samir’s gentle smile never faltered but the pinching of Runaan’s skin had him writhing in discomfort, “And if her choice is to follow in your footsteps?”

Runaan swallowed his hiss as Samir effectively slapped the disinfectant onto his wound, glaring at the unmoved countenance of his friend which seemed just a touch more sinister than usual against the candlelight, “You know why she can’t be allowed to do that.”

Samir opened his mouth to rebut but Rayla had evidently heard enough, barging into the room with a fierce look in her eyes. “You can’t choose my life for me!” 

Runaan would’ve snapped back, but when Samir’s hand was putting pressure on his wound, forcing him to bite his lip lest he let his discomfort be audible. The halfling looked at Rayla with that infernally serene visage, “Of course he can’t.” His smile abruptly became a disapproving frown, the dramatic shadows cast by the flames only exaggerating the sharpness of his features, “Even so, it’s impolite for a lass like yourself to be peeping, don’t you think?”

Rayla had the good sense to look regretful, bashfully dithering in place for a moment before finding her resolve, “I know it’s wrong to spy and I’m sorry but you can’t just talk about my life without me in the room!”

She was raising her voice now, something indignant and almost shrill and Runaan found himself automatically catching her eye, “Mind your tone, Rayla.” 

She looked at him head-on, breathing harshly through her nose, “ _ No. _ ” 

Runaan was on his feet, the now feeble light of the candle quickly extinguished by the heavy aura filling the room. “No?” Runaan said, his back straight and his eyes narrowed to slits. 

Rayla withstood his presence for a few moments but was on her knees swiftly, wheezing from the weight. Samir sighed, grabbing Runaan’s hand and yanking him back down onto the bed, a put upon sigh leaving his mouth, “Stop being so dramatic, Runaan. The girl’s only speaking her mind.” 

In an instant the weight was gone, flushed from the room like it had never been conjured and leaving a void of light air in the space between Runaan and his charge. He huffed in Samir’s direction, keeping his eyes on Rayla’s heaving form, “It is that very bull-headedness that marks her an unfit candidate for becoming an assassin. There are a myriad other things where her character will serve her people better. To fuel her childish fantasies would be cruelty.”

Samir looked so badly like he wanted to argue with him, to give Runaan a good thrashing for speaking so coldly to his ward but instead he settled for a scathing glower, unravelling the replacement gauze with more force than mindfulness and making a sharp grab for the tender skin above his wound. 

“You’re wrong.” 

The voice was weak and undeniably hoarse but it was fierce, a rumble of thunder a few paces overhead. She lifted herself onto her knees, meeting Runaan’s unimpressed gaze with a stubbornness and animosity that seemed beyond her dainy frame, “I’ll show you just how wrong you are,” she spat, “I’ll become the best assassin Xadia’s ever known.” 

Runaan didn’t so much as blink, “I’d like to see you try.” 

* * *

**+1) No Rest For the Wicked (35) **

  
  


The Prince’s egg was safe. 

Rayla had directly disobeyed him, was off making allies with their targets after butting her nose into the highest profile mission of modern Xadian history but the Dragon Prince’s egg was  _ safe _ . 

Her wide eyes looked at him, apprehension and hope and anxiety rolling off her person in waves. The boys behind her smelled so strongly of fear that it threatened to make Runaan’s nose wrinkle, but the Dragon Prince’s egg was safe. 

Vengeance was still necessary for King Thunder, obviously. King Harrow would not breathe come morning, but there was no oath if there was no terrible wrong to right. Runaan wanted to be mad at her, wanted to take his blade and drive it through the muscle of her thigh for daring to stand before him with that _face_ like emotions had any place on their mission field, but the Dragon Prince’s egg was safe and all that mattered now behind slitting Harrow’s throat was securing the egg. 

He looked at her, his eyes unreadable as he finished contemplating his plans and he prayed to the spirit of the Moon and his decision would not cost Xadia its greatest hope. 

“Take the egg and run. Farah will meet you in the forest.” 

Her breath hitched something fierce and Runaan stifled the urge to berate her for letting her relief and surprise be so apparent, “And what about the princes?” 

He would love to kill them both, but the egg came first. That egg was all that mattered. 

Runaan turned his face to the tower, “See to it that they get to safety.” 

“Are you sure, Runaan?” 

The clouds parted behind him, the glorious glow of the full moon filling his body with pure Primal energy. He met her gaze once more, crouching as he prepared to make the leap to the tower’s window, “Go, Rayla.” 

“But--”

“ _ Go! _ ” 

She hesitated for a moment, but then she was off following after the human princes with a consternated expression colouring her features. Runaan waited for the pittering of their footsteps to disappear before making his lunge. After he sent the Blood Ribbon, he would regroup with the children in the forest. 

For now, he would do his job. He would deal with the consequences of his decisions later. 

  
  


  
  
  
  
  



End file.
